You're Mine
by chezchuckles
Summary: A Valentine's Day fic. Happy Valentine's Day, Julie! I love you.
1. Chapter 1

**You're Mine**

* * *

><p>I will love you till the end of time<br>I would wait a million years  
>Promise you'll remember that you're mine<p>

-Blue Jeans, Lana del Ray

* * *

><p>He doesn't enjoy watching her flirt anymore.<p>

Not that he ever really loved it, but there was always something hot about it, arousing, watching Kate Beckett come on to someone, to put herself out there, slinky and lazy with sex appeal. Suspects or informants or what-have-you.

Castle enjoyed it, liked watching her hips sway, her hair disheveled and pouring around her shoulders, her eyes telegraphing availability. Which might say something about his - no, no. He won't go there.

Suffice it to say. He doesn't enjoy watching her flirt anymore.

She's promised to him.

She knows it; she said it, for all intents and purposes; she said it that day on the swings, apology and explanation and promise all. She gets feisty and mean when women show interest in him and she makes little comments, smiles those little smiles. So. He's claimed her, hasn't he? He's got a say in it, sort of, and he's been patient, he's been waiting.

And now this?

* * *

><p>He leaves before she can see him; slips back out the door he only barely walked through in the first place. His throat is tight, his chest burns. He knows there's always been a dangerous sense that this between them has a statute of limitations, but he never thought it would be so soon.<p>

That it would only take less than a year for him to miss his chance.

Too late.

He walks past a cloud of smoke outside; his eyes water. He heads down the sidewalk outside the jazz club, hands shoved into his pockets. Last year on Valentine's Day, she took him for a drink. Has it been a year since he unwittingly proved his boarding school friend a murderer?

Rick resolutely focuses on the sidewalk in front of him, the cracks, the ugly scars from weather and wear. His coat feels thin in the crackling, alive wind. It's supposed to snow at some point. It's supposed to be a cold that's worthwhile, that means something, that brings the promise of pure white _fun._

He hunches his shoulders and tucks his elbows against his sides, can't get the image out of his head. Kate Beckett in a navy dress, short skirt, hair in tumbling waves, fingers trailing up some guy's chest, fluttering at the bastard's cheek.

Damn. Damn it. He hates-

Castle stops, taking a breath, tries to shake it off. No worries. He can do this. It's probably time anyway, right? Time to figure out how to get over her.

He should've seen this coming. A mile away. So many _No Castle_s and put-offs and shakes of her head. So many rolled eyes. _I don't remember anything._

(Well. The rolled eyes? Not lately. Or really, ever since that conversation on the swings. Not many disrespectful eye-rolls, not many sighs or shakes of her head. And each time she says she doesn't remember, she does it with less and less conviction. Until they've stopped talking about it altogether.)

He remembers a lot of smiles, actually. Those gorgeous, wide smiles with teeth, her tongue pressing against her canines, un-self-conscious in her smile, letting him see it all. The ridge of her teeth, beautiful mouth, the tender regard in her eyes.

A different picture entirely from what he saw inside.

Hands shoved into his coat pockets, Castle half-turns back to the jazz club where she asked him to meet her. She told him to show up here, and for what? To have him meet some new guy, some Josh-Demming wannabe?

He's done so much waiting this past year, been so passive, that he's outside on the pavement walking away rather than inside there fighting for her.

What the hell?

No.

Not happening. She's promised to him.

_She's mine._

* * *

><p>When Castle gets back to the jazz club, Beckett is waiting for him just inside the front doors; her presence commands the attention of the entire space. She meets him halfway, slides a hand up his chest with a strange look, fingers fiddling with his collar.<p>

"I didn't get it," she mutters. "Where've you been? I texted you like an hour ago."

"Didn't get it?" he asks, taking a step back as Beckett stands entirely too close to him.

She follows, quirking an eyebrow at him, fingers wrapping around the lapel of his jacket. "The table. Did you not check your messages, Castle? You haven't texted me back all day."

"Oh." The table? Castle pulls his phone back out and checks his messages, realizing that the two from her that he read - _meet me at the jazz club. it's a date - _and then the address a few seconds later, those two messages have pushed up all the other messages she sent him before that. "I didn't see these." Also. _It's a date_ did somewhat mess with his head.

She huffs at him as he reads her updates, almost every thirty minutes, on the case he left her working on this morning. He had meetings with the agent about the movie rights for the second book, and when he got this text, he just. . .what else is he supposed to think when she texts him _it's a date?_

_"_So I told the unhelpful host over there-"

"Host?"

"You know, the guy who seats people? Jeez, Castle, keep up."

He glances to where she's nodding her head, sees the man he recognizes from before, the one she had her hands all over-

"He wouldn't give me a table anywhere near the front. And I need to get close enough to Molasky to speak with him-"

"Wait. What?" Castle scrolls back up his messages and tries to scan quickly enough to follow her.

"I need to talk to Molasky. To do that, Castle, I have to get close enough. The tables all around his are completely empty, but I tried everything and couldn't get the guy to seat us there."

She tried everything. Oh. _Oh._ That's what was going on when he'd come in before.

Castle runs a hand down his face on a sigh. Of course that's what she was doing. He should have known better. He should have-

"Castle. Focus. I told the unhelpful host that my boyfriend would be really upset if I couldn't get us a good table, and so I need you to throw your weight around, bully him into getting us a seat up-"

"You what?"

His brain is seriously having trouble catching up to this conversation. Beckett rolls her eyes and steps even closer, her body pressing him against the corner of the cramped foyer where people are waiting. It's dark, and he can hear the jazz horn riffing, and Kate Beckett is telling him to go be her boyfriend?

"Look pissed off and go get us a table near Molasky. I told you already, Castle; read your messages next time."

Molasky. Isn't he a councilman or something? A possible witness. Beckett, when he left this morning, was getting the runaround from the man's handlers, if he remembers correctly.

"Okay. Uh." He glances to the host behind the podium; the man is talking to a group, writing their names down, something. "Wait. You tried everything? Someone actually told you no?"

Kate grunts at him, shoving on his chest with the hand still wrapped around his lapel. "Thanks. Stop looking so pleased, and start looking angry, Castle. I need to get close to this guy."

And really, that's all it takes. _I need to get close to this guy._ He doesn't want her close to any guys, except himself, and that picture of her is burned into his mind's eye, Kate sliding her hands up that guy's chest, her fingers at that guy's cheek-

and not Castle's.

"There you go," she murmurs with a pleased, albeit surprised voice. "Whatever that is, use that. Channel your Martha Rodgers." Her face a mixture of pride and satisfaction; she pushes on him again, as if to get him going.

Castle grabs her by the shoulders and puts her off of him, pushing her to the side as he stalks towards the host. He hears her intake of breath, but ignores her.

Kate Beckett had her hands all over this guy. You bet he's going to throw his weight around.

* * *

><p>He smirks when they're led straight to a table at the front, only feet from Molasky. He's so pleased with himself that he forgets he's supposed to act like her boyfriend, at least until Beckett plasters herself against him, giving the guy who seated them these evil looks while cooing at Castle.<p>

Cooing. Yes. Entirely disconcerting. Throws him off so badly that he has trouble even appreciating those tight curves pressed against him.

Trouble, but it's not impossible. He even manages, at the last second, to cop a feel. Yes, he did. She was asking for it.

She also doesn't mention it when they sit, sliding into a rounded booth, and she even comes closer to sit at his side, arms touching.

"When do you want to approach Molasky?"

"Once the place gets a little busier. See those guys? They're his protective detail. They'll stop me before I even get a chance," she mutters, sipping at the water in front of them.

Oh great, he gets to play boyfriend for a few more minutes then.

Except he doesn't want to play at boyfriend. He wants to be the boyfriend. Lover. Eh, that sounds strange. Maybe. . .well, really, partner. They're partners. That's what he needs.

He's tired of undercover. Under *the* covers would be much better.

Didn't he promise himself to fight for her? Well, this is the perfect opportunity, isn't it? He's going to fight for her all right; fight dirty.

Castle feels the first real smile of the evening stretch across his face. His hand drops from the table to her thigh, as if by instinct, heat-seeking, and he feels her subtle shift, her attention moving from Molasky's bodyguards to Castle.

He sits back, ignoring her look, and brushes his thumb across the skin of her leg, incredibly satisfied by the goose bumps he feels rising under his fingers.

Yeah.

Kate Beckett, this is war.


	2. Chapter 2

**You're Mine**

* * *

><p>It's you, it's you - it's all for you. . .<br>I tell you all the time  
>Heaven is a place on earth with you<br>Tell me all the things you want to do  
>I heard that you like the bad girls<br>Honey, is that true?

-Video Games, Lana del Ray

* * *

><p>Beckett feels her stomach muscles tense as the back of his fingers stroke up and down her leg, caressing. She wore this skimpy navy dress, deep v neckline, and she knows the skirt rides up on her thighs, but she honestly didn't expect-<p>

Okay, well, it might be true that she thought about it. Just a little.

But oh, his fingers are getting seriously close to-

She gulps and turns her head, knowing her cheeks are flushed, her chest, her whole body suffused with heat. His heat. The heat of his hand, unhurried and lazy and yet still insistent on her thigh. His palm now, the wide, flat soft skin of his palm branding her.

His thumb strokes her on the way back down, his fingers curl along the inside of her leg, almost at the back of her knee-

Did she just shift to let-?

No. No, put a stop to this, Kate Beckett. Right now.

Only she can't. _She can't_. Because his hand on her thigh is hot, and right, and his body is pressed against her left side like there's no place more important right now than this booth in this jazz club this night. Tonight.

She keeps her face turned to the stage, and in her peripheral vision, Molasky.

Oh, his _hand_.

She can't breathe if he keeps doing that. She'll have to - her hips are shifting every time his hand strokes higher, and there's her own heat now as well, his hand entirely too daring, taking liberties.

What the hell is he doing?

_Having fun._

The insufferable. . .

Holy shit. He's doing this to her on purpose.

But why-

_Oh_. Oh, he can't do that in public.

Kate grabs his arm, sucking in a breath, finding her pulse is so rapid, her heart hammering so hard she can feel her whole body shaking. Castle is chuckling. Laughing.

Having fun.

"What the hell, Castle?" she grits out, turning to him.

"You did say your boyfriend would be mad at you for not getting a table. And you're right," he says, his eyes narrowing to slits as he stares over at her, a long look that roams all over her body, making everything catch fire. "You're right, Beckett. And he's going to make you pay for it."

Her mouth drops open.

He's _punishing_ her.

What the hell for?

* * *

><p>Molasky is right there. So close. If she can just-<p>

"You wanna create a distraction?" he murmurs, his voice entirely too close.

She blinks and turns back to him, finds his face against hers, skin brushing skin, and his lips open and glance across hers, wet and erotic. She stumbles, everything falters - her heart, her words, her indignation.

Kate finds her hand curling in the sleeve of his dress shirt, hanging on.

"Distraction?" she mutters finally, uncertain, shaken. "I think you - you got that covered."

He hums a laugh that shoots straight down to her belly, unfurling hot and bright. "Not what I said, Kate. Diversion. Do you want me to create a diversion?"

"For what?" What is he-

"So you can get close to Molasky."

She blinks, business reeling her back in, like a lid placed over the burning cauldron of her body's response. Molasky. "Oh. No, the band - they come on in twenty-five minutes. When the floor gets crowded down front, we can slip into the booth with him."

There. Much better. She's got a handle on this.

"So, until then?" he asks, and drops his hand on her knee, fingertips stroking her patella. His nail scratches at the knob of her knee, a little grin on his lips. "Missed a spot."

Missed a spot? _Shaving_. Holy-

He leans in and presses his mouth to hers before she can speak, his lips heavy as they clamp down, cracking her open, peeling her apart, coring her. His tongue scoops out her own and she withstands it, breathes, the vital and terrible and electrifying connection running, jolting from his mouth into hers, an endless, unbroken curcuit.

His teeth catch her top lip; he pulls away. The connection doesn't break; the current between their mouths is still live, still reaching across the scant distance.

"Well, I'm distracted," he breathes out, his eyes intent on hers.

"Diversion." She swallows hard, tries to hear anything over the rush of blood in her ears. "You said diversion."

"You're hardly a diversion, Kate Beckett."

* * *

><p>She can't stand much more of this.<p>

And she doesn't even know why she's letting him, why she's not glaring at him, removing his hand, and maybe, for good measure, slapping him across the face for this.

Except-

she's having fun too.

Oh, _yes, _she's having fun too.

Her body quakes as his fingers trace the seam of her tightly pressed together legs, stroking between her clenched knees, and somehow, oh no, somehow that's more erotic than anything else he's done to her in the last-

Has it only been six minutes?

But the next jazz band, the headlining group, is set to go on stage in about twenty minutes, and then it will be crowded enough to get close to Molasky, get a chance to talk to the one guy who might know how his intern wound up dead, get him to agree to talk, only until then-

Ohhhh. . .she is not going to make - make it - she's not-

"Castle," she grits out, turning her face into his shoulder and sinking her teeth into his shirt, her hips jerking against his hand. She winds her fingers between his to make him stop, feels the pad of his thumb still brushing _oh_ so lightly against her knee.

He's chuckling darkly into the top of her head, his mouth at her hair, and something about that sound makes it so much worse, so much more wrong, and so right. Oh, so right.

His mouth is at her ear, his breath hot against her skin, his fingers still trying to trace the curves of her thighs, his elbow rubbing the flat pane of her stomach, and she can't follow, can't figure out which thing requires her attention more - his mouth, so close, or his hand, so close - and what the hell has she done to him to make him-

His tongue darts out to the shell of her ear; she bites the thin layer of his shirt, seeking skin but tasting only cloth, grinds her teeth at his deft touch. She's still got both hands wrapped around the arm in her lap, but it doesn't do any good, any of it, and his mouth is vibrating against the sensitive skin at her neck, her jaw, that place where the skin is soft just below her ear and she can't breathe, can't think-

"Rick," she moans, her voice muffled by his shirt, but not enough to silence the neediness in her tone, the brokenness.

His hand comes up, cradles the side of her face, fingers stroking along her cheek now.

It does nothing to unwind her, only eases her back from the edge, slowly. Too slowly. Her thigh muscles are still twitching, her mouth open against his shoulder, and thought returning in disjointed fragments.

Punishing her.

For what, for what, for wh-

Possessive, possessed. That's what this is. The whole thing. And she likes it, shit, she liked it.

She needs-

_For not getting a table_. For not getting a table, he said, because she tried everything, she said, and he must have-

He must have seen her. She thought he was late, but no. He came in while she was flirting, seducing, attempting to seduce, the guy at the front desk who wouldn't seat her.

Castle saw her. And he's punishing her for it.

As her breathing begins to steady, so does her understanding.

What a neanderthal.

He is so getting it.

All's fair in love and war.


	3. Chapter 3

**You're Mine**

* * *

><p>Can you make it feel like home, if I tell you -<br>you're mine

-Born to Die, Lana del Ray

* * *

><p>Even though his hand doesn't stop roaming, she marshals her forces and fights back. She is not above fighting dirty either.<p>

Kate shifts so that her body cants towards his in the booth, crosses her legs so that her foot hooks under his calf. He squeezes her leg, slides his hand up the newly exposed expanse of skin. She suppresses her reaction brutally, despite the piano play of his fingers along her outside thigh.

They're so close she can feel the heat of him coming at her in waves, radiating into her. She crosses that last half-inch slowly, hovering, prolonging the anticipation until she can just feel the starch of his shirt against her collarbone, his arm across her to clutch at her thigh.

Kate nudges his knee with her own, lays her left arm against the back of the booth, leans her head against her hand, watches him.

All she has to do.

His eyes flicker to her mouth, to her eyes; his hand on her thigh slides back, inching up to her flank. She's practically wrapped around his arm like this, but she doesn't move, doesn't let it show on her face, only watches him with drowsy, bedroom eyes.

He swallows.

Kate smiles.

"Castle," she murmurs, and drops her hand behind his head, thumb brushing his spine. His eyes trail up to her face, something like a blush in his cheeks. She realizes his fingers have stopped moving; his hand is heavy on her thigh, and hot, but inert.

She touches the tips of her fingers to the back of his neck, slowly spreads them out along his nape.

He jerks his eyes away from hers as if the combination is too much - her touch, her eyes on him. She bites the inside of her lip, feels her heart in a pounding echo of the pulse she feels at her fingers.

Lightly, she glides her nails out through the short hairs at his neck, draws her fingers back, and out again, back, and out, back-

His hand on her thigh squeezes sharply, curls into a fist. She feels, next to her, the stutter of his breath.

She slides closer, presses her chest against his arm and side, lays her chin on his shoulder, still stroking his neck.

His fist shifts to her lap, heavy and tense, and his head swivels to look at her, but his eyes dart away again. Kate grins darkly and leans closer, blows softly at his ear.

He jumps, clutching her knee, the table, his breath rasping.

"You nervous, Castle?"

"N-nervous? No."

"Good," she purrs, then puffs her breath hotly against his neck and holds her lips close, so very close to his skin. She can see his throat working, so she slides a finger under his collar and runs it around his neck until she reaches his adam's apple.

"Kate." His voice is garbled, like he can't speak past the touch of her finger on his throat.

"Hmmm. . ." she half-sighs, questioning distractedly, then leans fully against him and presses her mouth to the hollow of his throat.

That's all it takes for him to break.

In an instant, the hand in her lap flexes and grabs the back of her thigh, hikes her over and into him. She startles, but he's got his fingers tangled in her hair, cupping the back of her neck, and his mouth comes down, crushing, to meet hers.

She awkwardly half-straddles his knee, bites down on his bottom lip, swipes her tongue across the spot even as he grunts into her mouth. His thumb on her inner thigh bruises, his grip on her neck unrelenting, his mouth works at her, ceaseless and demanding.

What has she done?

* * *

><p>She tastes like mocha, like mint, like the clinging, moist inside of need. She tastes better than he remembered, and richer, and when he finally lets up, takes a breath, she tracks his mouth with a mewl, comes back for more.<p>

Castle wants to kiss everything, all of her, wants his hands to move higher, lower, all over, but they're in public and the jazz band is too mellow for the frantic percussion of his heart.

He pulls back again, catches her face between his hands before she can come at him again, holds her off, trying to breathe.

He has things to say; he wants to say something.

He has no idea what.

"Not here," she groans, leans her forehead against his with a crack. He winces, slides his fingers back into her hair, scratching at her scalp.

"Where then?" he questions, because it better be somewhere else, it better be soon. He's not taking no for an answer.

"I can't - there's not - we gotta get out of here," she moans, lifting her head.

Those ripe, smudged lips, that pink line of her tongue behind her teeth, the desperation leaking from her eyes. He did that to her; he made her crazy with it. Just like she's done to him for years now.

Castle leans forward and takes her mouth, pressing his lips hard to hers, forcing her open, sucking at her tongue, but she's shoving him back, climbing off of him.

He freezes, heart tripping, but she turns back to him, grabs him by the sleeve of his shirt and pulls.

Castle comes, sliding out of the booth and into her, wrapping his arms around her waist, ducking his head down beside her neck as he pushes her to the door.

"What about Molasky?" he says, stumbling as she shoves back.

"I don't care. Tomorrow. Later. I couldn't get close enough - I got too close," she says, breathless and tumbling words and a body that just won't quit. He suckles at her skin, pulling up short when she bites his earlobe and spins them around, now her body crowding his and pushing him backwards.

He can't think, can't process, can't do anything other than feel her against him, urging him to the door of the club, her hands in the back pockets of his jeans and squeezing. _Too close._

Fair's fair. Castle slides his hands up her legs, hiking her skirt with it, squeezes the back of her thigh. She makes a noise in her throat and pushes on him harder. They fall apart and she's got him by the hand and pulling him to the exit.

He follows. He follows close. Too close.

* * *

><p>She already has two of his buttons undone. Near the top. A lovely view of his chest, that place she put her mouth.<p>

"What are we doing here?" he asks, crowding her into the taxi. He said something to the driver, she's not sure, can't think past the feel of skin. "Kate, what are we doing?"

The question doesn't cool her blood at all. Not a moment of hesitation, not a beat, not a pause.

She roams her hand up his side, a leg hooked over his knee in the back of the cab. "Long time coming, Castle."

"If you behave, I can do that," he growls back, sucks on her neck.

A breathless and clutching laugh. "I - I don't know that I can," she gasps, swallows so he can feel the movement of her throat, feel what he's done to her.

He makes a noise, licks the edge of her collarbone, trails back to the tendon, the trapezius muscle tensing under his mouth. His hand comes up to hold her still; she realizes she's been scattering open-mouthed kisses along his neck, his jaw, moving wherever she can get closer, undulating against him like she's uncontrolled, desperate.

She is, at that.

"Kate, what are we doing here?" he says again, fisting in her hair, arranging her mouth where he seems to want it most.

She breaks away, breathes, watches his hungry eyes on hers. "Is it in question?"

Oh. _It is._ He wonders about her. She doesn't know what more she can do right now.

"I'm doing this," she says, all the answer she has. "And you're taking me home."

He opens his mouth, shuts it; his hands are still on her, one caught perilously close to danger, the other sliding around her neck to cup her cheek. Too intimate, too gentle.

"Whose home?" he says finally.

"Mine."

He shakes his head, pulls on her neck to get her closer. "No. You're coming to mine."

* * *

><p>The cab ride is muted, the throb dull and painful in her blood.<p>

"Where's Alexis?" she says finally, breaking away from him even as he tries to press a slow, wet kiss to her neck.

He lifts his head and stares hard at her, fury or challenge in his gaze. "She'll be home later."

"How later?"

"We have time."

"Wait." Her heart pounds; she presses her palm over his mouth when he leans in. "Wait."

He closes his eyes; even with her hand over his mouth, she sees the cascade of desolation down his face. Her heart twists.

"No, no," she murmurs, hears her own voice breaking, tries to cradle his head between her hands. "No, wait. Wait."

His eyes open slowly; she hates herself, hates herself, oh God-

"Just, hold on. Don't - just wait a second."

"I've been waiting," he says, and there's grief lacing his voice.

She bites her lip to keep from welling up, clutches him fiercely. All she wanted to do was have him, finally have him, stop _stopping_ herself, and now she can't undo that, can't make it right again.

There is only forward, together. That's all she has left now - there is no more waiting. Not after this.

"I know you have," she murmurs, leans in to kiss his eyelid, tender and gentle, brushes her mouth over his nose to find the other one, treat it with equal concern. "I know."

"I don't want to wait anymore," he says, and buries his face in her neck as if he can't bear to look at her. "Don't make me."

"I know," she says again, clutching at his shoulders, her heart pounding. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," he sighs and lifts away from her, tries to slide back to the distant side of the cab.

She clings, hates herself for that too but she can't let go, can't. Can't let go of him. "Where are you going?"

He turns to her slowly, too slowly, like it hurts, and she makes a fist in his shirt, pulls him back.

"Don't leave," she says raggedly.

Castle looks confused, a little trampled, and-

Angry.

Mulish, and hurt, and angry with her. For leading him on. But she wasn't. She isn't. If he would just listen instead of spinning his own conspiracy theories in his head.

"Wait isn't _no_," she says, punching him in the shoulder. "I didn't say no. I said hold your horses, Castle. So stop looking at me like that."

She glares at him, her own indignation battling back at the broken parts, shoving it all together again.

His mouth drops open, he glances away, then back. "What?"

"Stop looking at me like I broke your heart. Can't you just listen to me?"

He blinks at her, shuts his mouth.

She huffs at him. "I just wanted to be sure-"

"I'm sure. You're not sure?"

She makes a fist, seriously thinks about hitting him much harder this time, and he shuts his mouth again.

"Does it look like I ever do anything I don't want to?"

He tilts his head, but he's wiser now, doesn't open his mouth.

"I meant you," she goes on. "I meant about me coming home with you, having Alexis there in the morning when we get out of bed."

Ah, shit. She said it, but she wasn't really thinking it all the way through. She said it, but it just now hit her exactly what it is he's asking for.

He invited her home. To his home. Where his daughter is, where his life is - sacrosanct and inviolate - his world.

"I'm sure."

She jerks her head up, meets his eyes, panic and rush and need fighting in her chest. "Yeah?"

He nods, quirks an eyebrow at her. "Can I - can I say something?"

She grins then, lips pressed tightly together. "I don't know, Castle. Can you?"

He actually thinks about it a second, and then he shrugs. "Probably shouldn't, but here it is anyway."

She actually feels her hands in fists, feels her heart bracing for the impact.

"I want you wherever I can get you; I'll take whatever you give me. But Kate-"

She waits still, tense with the dizzying arousal that spills through her when he says he'll take her, but there's more-

"Kate, I don't want to wait so long I miss it. Don't want to miss out. I don't want to wait so long that it passes me by-"

She sucks in a breath, blinks back desperation. "It won't. It can't. Not this." She wants to believe, needs to believe it won't-

Could it? Could they miss their chance? Waiting.

"Just." He shakes his head, wraps his arms around her and pulls her against him, tight and good and crushing. "Just be mine. No one else's. Be mine, Kate, and I won't worry, I won't push you, I won't ask for anything more-"

She pulls back to see his face, the relief bubbling up in her throat, wanting out. "I already am. I already am. When was I not?"

The desolation on his face burns away by the light flaring in his eyes. His hands at her back slide up to caress her cheeks, curl at her neck.

"I can have you?"

She sucks in a breath, a laugh, realizes he isn't talking about the physicality, the act, just the possession. The claim. The promise.

If that's what she's answering, then she can't - she - what else can she do?

"You can have me."

"Kate." He kisses her softly, his mouth damp against hers, his tongue at the corner of her lips, sweet and lovely and reverent. "Then come home."

_Home._

She wants to go home. Aches for it. It's been years. . .

"Yes, I'll come home."

He gives a long sigh against her neck.

"That's enough."


End file.
